


Pulse, Impulse

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is some kind of functionally immortal and not dealing well, Crack Lite, Dragon Age II Quest - Dissent, Gen, Mid-Canon, bit of mild gore and body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: When Anders loses control on a mission to the Gallows and endangers the life of an innocent girl, Fenris rips his heart out.It’s not a very satisfying a turn of events, especially when Anders breaks into his mansion in the middle of the night a week later to have some kind of existential crisis.“No! Not no harm done!” Anders hisses. “Humansdon’t stay alive for however long it takes for them toregrow their own heart!”“Eight days,” Fenris supplies blandly.
Relationships: Anders & Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	Pulse, Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> Ey, this fic takes place during the quest Dissent from Act II of Dragon Age II. It takes a lot of inspiration from the [Anders short story](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Anders_\(short_story\)). As a text I believe it’s largely neutral on the subject of Justice’s possession of Anders, but I as a person lean rather pro-Justice, just so you know. Read & Relax~

The girl was in danger, and someone had to pull the plug on that demon, so he did. There’s a gurgling gasp, and the light dancing on the mage’s neck die, and Anders collapses on the ground. And for all that Fenris is (or at least had once been) a cold blooded killer, he flinches. The heart in his hand feels precious, like a wounded bird, but he startles so badly that his fist seizes up around it and shreds it. Fenris drops the heart, and it lets out a gory squelch as it hits the ground.

The mage girl screams and runs from him, and Fenris must look just as terrifying as Anders and his demon had – covered in gore and ripping hearts from people’s chests. He keeps his head down, so as not to look for the same expression in the eyes of his companions.

It’s an awkward moment, studying his feet, and the indistinct red brown sac of flesh he’s dropped next to them. It should blend in. This whole section of tunnel is covered in indistinct slurry of bone and blood and meat – the remains of what used to be Templars before Anders got to them. But Fenris thinks he could pick that one heart out of a line-up.

“I am-” he stops himself. _Sorry_? he wonders. It seems like such an insufficient thing to say. _I had to. He lost control. He was going to kill the girl._ But this feels insufficient too. And Hawke and Varric were there: they know the situation and they saw Fenris’s actions. Their own judgements, their own interpretations of Fenris’s motives, of Anders’s – they don’t mean less than Fenris’s. He doesn’t want to speak over them.

“We should move on,” he says, and lets the guilt sink into his words. But he isn’t wrong – they should leave before they attract more attention.

Hawke is looting Alrik’s body, seemingly unwilling to hear Fenris at this moment. “He wasn’t wrong,” she says, after scanning the page. “Alrik did propose a ‘Tranquil Solution’. Sent it straight to the Divine. It was rejected, but he wasn’t just jumping at shadows.” Her voice is tight, coiled with unspoken accusations.

Varric finally recovers. “Shit. We can’t just leave Blondie’s body here for the Templars to find. He’ll never-” There is a choking sound, and then he restarts. “Said he led five mages to freedom through this passage. It’s a better resting place than if we let them drag the body back to the Gallows for disposal.”

The unspoken part of this is that they don’t have the time to linger, or the strength to heft the body up all the way back under the sea to Darktown. Fenris grunts, and hefts the mage’s shell up onto his shoulder and leaves the tattered remains of Anders’s heart where it lay.

Varric finds a hidden alcove five minutes back through the passage, cluttered with dusty crates, and Fenris swings the corpse off his shoulder and props it against the stone wall. Hawke removes Anders’s feathered coat from his back and uses it to blanket his front. Varric mutters something like a prayer, or a story, that Fenris can’t be bothered to catch. Fenris’s eyes drift to where blood has collected on the mage’s lip from where Anders- no, Justice- no, Anders quite literally bit into Sir Alrik’s cheek. No breath passes that lip, and the blood pools in one spot, a little too slow to dry in the dampness of the alcove. And they all stand there in a panicked moment of silence, all too aware of the fact that the Templars can only be so far behind. And Hawke- Hawke is still a mage. And Fenris doesn’t want to know what the Templars will do to her if they connect her with what has happened here.

The mage girl, Ella, is there when they finally reach Darktown, after what feels like an eternity, and she recoils as Fenris brushes past her. He hears a snippet of Hawke’s conversation with her as he retreats. _What was that thing_? “Somebody very brave.” And Fenris doesn’t want to know who they’re talking about. He wants to wash his hands of this incident and be done.

He runs into Aveline, who tells him to keep his chin up. Isabela avoids the topic, trying to keep things shallow and sweet, but he can hear the distance and sadness behind her flirtations. The witch is insufferable with platitudes and pity and enough understanding to make him sick.

“He was reckless,” she said sadly. “He did not understand what it meant to bind himself to a spirit, how dangerous such a thing was. I don’t think either of them did. It was a shame for it to end like this. For your sake as well as his, lethallin.” But Fenris only snarls that Merrill is hardly one to talk, since she’ll only go the same way in the end. He stalks off in the knowledge he is being awful, but it’s fine because he’s not looking for forgiveness.

Fenris did not want to kill one of his own allies, to bring them down with his own hand, no matter how obnoxious and offensive he might find them. Anders was a mage – close enough to a magister with his demon and his barely concealed idolatry of Tevinter – and a danger to himself and everyone around him. But Anders’s demise does not bring to mind victorious battles against the Imperial Elite.

Fenris finds himself thinking of the mindlessness with which he’d once killed Qunari, the bodyguards of rival Magisters, and escaped slaves alike, all at Danarius’s behest. And he thinks of the moment after he’d killed the Fog Warriors where he’d had the first bizarre inclination to justify himself. Because he’d looked at those hands and wanted to say it was Danarius who set the order and committed the crime. But part of him had wondered if he might _not_ belong to Danarius. If maybe he could be his own man, and these his own hands. And, if so, what had Fenris done?

He still made that decision more often than not – to fight and to kill. But Anders had not felt like a decision. The demon was there, overlarge and threatening, and Fenris was not sure any of them could control it, and his fear had made the decision to act for him. And Fenris thought he was right to fear what he did, but he could not tell this apart from a paltry justification meant to sell himself back unto the control of something other than himself.

“You've killed close to seven hundred men by my count. And at least five different fine families of giant spiders.” Varric tells him. “How is this different? Because Blondie’s the only one you knew well enough to feel bad about? Maybe that's your problem.”

This does not make Fenris feel better. And considering Varric’s humourless smile in retrospect, it probably wasn’t _meant_ to make him feel better.

The answer, of course, is drinking and isolation. Because Hawke hasn’t visited him, and Fenris can’t stand to visit anyone else. He thinks and feels less when he drinks, and the pain in his markings dulls. And even if Hadriana is liable to swoop out of the rafters one of these days and carry him off, he’s not sure if he can do anything about it all by himself, alone.

So he is alone. He’s sitting in an armchair surrounded by glass and dust and trash, nursing a bottle he drinks without tasting, when a brick crashes through the window behind him.

Fenris scrambles and nearly falls out of his chair. But the person climbing through the window isn’t Hadriana, or another wave of slavers – it’s a grungy, pale, feathery excuse for a mage. And at that point Fenris gives up. He reaches down for the wine bottle he dropped in the commotion (the last dregs haven’t spilled out yet) and sinks back into his chair.

He’s not drunk enough for this. Will never be drunk enough for this.

“Sorry I didn’t knock, but I didn’t want to,” Anders offers by way of incredibly insincere apology. He has circled around the armchair, and looms somewhat threateningly over Fenris. Anders’s coat is stained with mud and gore and filth, and Fenris idly thinks he’d do better to dye it dark at this point than try to wash it out. It would suit the rest of his appearance – dark purple circles under his eyes, skin sheened with unhealthy pallor, hair mussed and pulled free of its tie.

Fenris takes another swig of his wine. “You’re dead,” he states. Though he feels oddly unconvinced this is a hallucination.

“I think you’ll find,” Anders blinks down at him with something like condescension, “that I am not.” And the end of that pitches up, almost like a question, definitely like hysteria.

“I pulled out your heart,” Fenris counters. “I remember it. It was on the ground, like a puddle.”

“I remember that too,” Anders squeaks. He clears his throat. “And yet-”

He fumbles with his coat for a moment, pulls open the shirt underneath. And then he’s right there, grabbing for Fenris’s hand. And Fenris tries to swat him away before he remembers he’s given up.

Anders places Fenris’s hand flat against his chest, weaving his fingers through stringy golden hair. And Fenris is sick remembering the last time he’d plunged his hand through this spot on Anders’s torso before he understands the purpose of this exercise.

“Yes, that is definitely a heartbeat,” Fenris confirms, pulling his hand away. With the other he directs the wine bottle to his mouth. Definitely not drunk enough.

Anders huffs and fumbles to redo his coat’s clasps. Fenris waits a moment before taking the bait.

“How?”

This is apparently all Anders needs to launch into a diatribe. He paces across the room, glass crunching to sand beneath his feet. Fenris’s eyes follow him, pupils curving back and forth like a swinging pendulum.

“I woke up in those Maker-forsaken smuggler tunnels. Took me forever to find my way out. No thanks to the false wall in the crypt you assholes shoved me into – Varric’s work, I assume?” Fenris nods sulkily, but Anders isn’t even looking at him. “How many days has it even been? The girl – is she okay? Did she make it out? Did I hurt her?! If I hurt her-”

“The girl got away,” Fenris provides. “She was unharmed.”

Anders does seem to take this in, but it calms him only momentarily. “It was there when I woke up – the heartbeat. It was faint at first, but it’s stronger now. I- I- My magic can regenerate organ tissue. That’s all healing magic really is – rapid and controlled cell growth. Replacing blood and skin and body parts that have been injured.”

“There you have it,” Fenris congratulates the mage on finding the explanation. “You’re alive. No harm done.” He pointedly ignores the fact that Anders looks like death warmed over. The fact that Fenris probably doesn’t look much better himself.

“No! Not no harm done!” Anders hisses. “ _Humans_ don’t stay alive for however long it takes for them to _regrow their own heart_!”

“Eight days,” Fenris supplies blandly.

Anders lets out a strangled sob. “Maker help me! What kind of monster am I?!”

“I couldn’t hazard a guess.” Fenris has ideas, but he’s also never seen an abomination come back to life eight days in and still vaguely human, so he’s willing to accept he’s out of his depth. “Has this… happened before?” he asks lamely.

“No- I mean- I don’t think so?” Anders says. “I don’t really know where that sword hit that one time. I assumed it missed my vital organs but-” Anders wrings his hands.

“…I see.” Fenris responds in his best neutral voice.

“No, you don’t understand!” Anders insists. “This is my fault! Justice never would have wanted this! And now I’ve ruined him! And I don’t know what we’re becoming! And you don’t get it! He was such an idealist, and so calm, self assured, naïve even! You’d never have mistaken him for a demon if you knew him in Amaranthine!”

This is entirely too much speculation on Anders’s pet demon to be meaningful and- “Mage, why are you coming to me about this?” Fenris asks. “Surely anyone else would be preferable?”

Anders rounds on him, aghast. “Are you _insane_?!”

Fenris waits a moment to confirm the irony truly is lost on Anders.

“I can’t walk up to the others a week after I was brutally _murdered_! _Oh, don’t mind me, I just grew a new heart~ Let’s not make a big to-do about it~_ _By the way, have you seen the new fountain pens they have at the Hightown market? I’ve heard Antiva is lovely this time of year._ What would they think of me?! I have a _reputation_ to uphold!”

“Well, I’m glad my opinion of you matters so little, that you have no problem coming back from the grave to invade my home and bother me with this in the middle of the night!” Fenris’s wine bottle is empty, and he suddenly feels infuriated by it. He goes to throw it against the wooden floorboards, but fails to build up the proper momentum. It flops down, and rattles against the ground, but does not break.

Anders watches it. “Yes, I suppose breaking through your window was unnecessary. A little over the top. Not my finest hour.”

Fenris feels a bit mollified in spite of himself. “So was me putting my hand through your chest,” he admits.

“It’s not a big deal,” Anders says. “Between your window and my heart… Let’s just call it even.”

Fenris does not think this an equivalent exchange. Especially considering that a broken window only suits this wretched dump of a mansion better than an unbroken one. But he’s not prepared to argue further with Anders’s lack of trade sense.

There is a moment of quiet, and then Anders takes a deep breath. “I know I have to go face the others eventually. But- how can I? …Maybe you just didn’t try hard enough,” Anders says. “Maybe if you had ripped me into more pieces I wouldn’t have been able to…” Anders gestures at himself vaguely. “You know?”

Fenris thinks he’d rather not know. He slumps further into his chair.

For a moment Anders is just pacing, and Fenris considers. He guesses it’s too much to expect that anything good might have come from this experience, but he might as well ask.

“And your demon? Is he-” _around?_ “Does he have anything to say about any of this?”

“Oh, he’s here,” Anders says. And for a moment he sounds almost touched. And not just touched in the head, for once. “And he’s a spirit, not a demon. But I can’t really talk to Justice in the way you mean any more. He just makes his presence known to me at times. I’m relatively sure he was the one who remained calm enough in the tunnels to figure out that false wall bit.”

It is unnerving, as it always is to hear Anders ascribe personality and humanity to his so-called spirit. But it’s probably still the least unnerving thing he’s said this whole night. Fenris struggles for something to say, and decides on: “Noted.”

Anders paces, and hyperventilates, until he’s worked himself back into a panic.

“No, you’re still not getting it!” he insists. “I’m a Grey Warden. It’s not just a title or some… _position_! I thought that once, but- We’re filled with the taint, unholy rot, the Maker’s disfavour! And it corrupts us to the core. There are… numerous physiological differences. Everyone knows about the fabled appetites and _stamina_ but- Decreased body temperature. Changes in blood chemistry. We’re already walking around half dead, and if I can’t _die_ on top of that-” Anders seems to struggle with himself a moment, before he turns to Fenris and blurts out, “You know we all go insane in the end? Eventually the corruption gets into our head and we’re just meant to disappear into the Deep Roads and be torn to pieces fighting Darkspawn? What happens when I don’t die then? I’m already losing control. I’m losing control of what Justice and I are becoming and I almost killed that girl and it’s only going to get worse and I can’t count on the fact that at the very least someone will put me down before it gets too bad. And-”

“Then you had better find a way to get yourself under control,” Fenris says sharply.

Anders falls silent, and Fenris considers the reason the advice hurts is because it’s meant for himself as much as Anders. He doesn’t know enough about the peculiarities of being an abomination to say what Anders needs to do to proceed. But Fenris knows that he’s not going to be able to fend off Hadriana by spiralling into despair and complacency. He didn’t take himself back from Danarius to let himself go to- whatever this is.

“Is that your way of saying I should turn myself into the Templars?” Anders finally asks, halfway between fear and affront.

“I meant only what I said.” Fenris attempts to roll his eyes and loses them somewhere up at the ceiling. Because if Anders doesn’t always look for the absolute worst way to interpret his words. “It was a suggestion, not a condemnation.”

“Oh, right then,” Anders says. “I suppose you’re not wrong. If I can’t- I’m just going to have to find a way to pull myself together. No problem. Control.” And Fenris can hear Anders fiddling nervously with his hands, especially now that it’s not being drowned out by the sound of his heaving breath. “You know, this was almost a civil little chat, for us. When I came here I didn’t expect you to be so… docile, for lack of a better word.”

Fenris snorts. He’ll still never be drunk enough for this, but maybe that’s fine.

“You know-” Anders continues. “Instead of that whole thing where I have to figure out how be responsible for myself, why don’t we- Are you sure you don’t want to try tearing me apart and setting the pieces on fire?” Anders says. It has the cadence of a joke, but there’s a laugh tacked on at the end that’s a little too nervous and dry. And Anders apparently failed to take the hint when Fenris pointedly ignored this line of conversation earlier.

Fenris’s entire body seems to tighten with his rejection. _No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t fun the first time I tried. I have no intention- No._ Except he doesn’t want to have to explain and justify to Anders how much he doesn’t want to do this. So when he croaks out his response, it’s an awkward, “Some other time. Perhaps.”

The message seems to get through to Anders anyhow. “Oh,” he says, bewildered. And finally all the frantic energy leaves Anders, and he seems to slump down into his own bones. “Pity.”


End file.
